Two Years in the French West Indies | Page 4

billowings which lift us cannot be seen;--it is because the summits of these swells are mile-broad,--too broad to be discerned from the level of our deck.
... Ten A.M.--Under the sun the sea is a flaming, dazzling lazulite. My French friend from Guadeloupe kindly confesses this is almost the color of tropical water.... Weeds floating by, a little below the surface, are azured. But the Guadeloupe gentleman says he has seen water still more blue. I am sorry,--I cannot believe him.
Mid-day.--The splendor of the sky is weird! No clouds above-- only blue fire! Up from the warm deep color of the sea-circle the edge of the heaven glows as if bathed in greenish flame. The swaying circle of the resplendent sea seems to flash its jewel- color to the zenith. Clothing feels now almost too heavy to endure; and the warm wind brings a languor with it as of temptation.... One feels an irresistible desire to drowse on deck --the rushing speech of waves, the long rocking of the ship, the lukewarm caress of the wind, urge to slumber--but the light is too vast to permit of sleep. Its blue power compels wakefulness. And the brain is wearied at last by this duplicated azure splendor of sky and sea. How gratefully comes the evening to us,--with its violet glooms and promises of coolness!
All this sensuous blending of warmth and force in winds and waters more and more suggests an idea of the spiritualism of elements,--a sense of world-life. In all these soft sleepy swayings, these caresses of wind and sobbing of waters, Nature seems to confess some passional mood. Passengers converse of pleasant tempting things,--tropical fruits, tropical beverages, tropical mountain-breezes, tropical women It is a time for dreams--those day-dreams that come gently as a mist, with ghostly realization of hopes, desires, ambitions.... Men sailing to the mines of Guiana dream of gold.
The wind seems to grow continually warmer; the spray feels warm like blood. Awnings have to be clewed up, and wind-sails taken in;--still, there are no white-caps,--only the enormous swells, too broad to see, as the ocean falls and rises like a dreamer's breast....
The sunset comes with a great burning yellow glow, fading up through faint greens to lose itself in violet light;--there is no gloaming. The days have already become shorter.... Through the open ports, as we lie down to sleep, comes a great whispering,--the whispering of the seas: sounds as of articulate speech under the breath,--as, of women telling secrets....

V.
Fifth day out. Trade-winds from the south-east; a huge tumbling of mountain-purple waves;--the steamer careens under a full spread of canvas. There is a sense of spring in the wind to- day,--something that makes one think of the bourgeoning of Northern woods, when naked trees first cover themselves with a mist of tender green,--something that recalls the first bird- songs, the first climbings of sap to sun, and gives a sense of vital plenitude.
... Evening fills the west with aureate woolly clouds,--the wool of the Fleece of Gold. Then Hesperus beams like another moon, and the stars burn very brightly. Still the ship bends under the even pressure of the warm wind in her sails; and her wake becomes a trail of fire. Large sparks dash up through it continuously, like an effervescence of flame;--and queer broad clouds of pale fire swirl by. Far out, where the water is black as pitch, there are no lights: it seems as if the steamer were only grinding out sparks with her keel, striking fire with her propeller.

VI.
Sixth day out. Wind tepid and still stronger, but sky very clear. An indigo sea, with beautiful white-caps. The ocean color is deepening: it is very rich now, but I think less wonderful than before;--it is an opulent pansy hue. Close by the ship it looks black-blue,--the color that bewitches in certain Celtic eyes.
There is a feverishness in the air;--the heat is growing heavy; the least exertion provokes perspiration; below-decks the air is like the air of an oven. Above-deck, however, the effect of all this light and heat is not altogether disagreeable;-one feels that vast elemental powers are near at hand, and that the blood is already aware of their approach.
All day the pure sky, the deepening of sea-color, the lukewarm wind. Then comes a superb sunset! There is a painting in the west wrought of cloud-colors,--a dream of high carmine cliffs and rocks outlying in a green sea, which lashes their bases with a foam of gold....
Even after dark the touch of the wind has the warmth of flesh. There is no moon; the sea-circle is black as Acheron; and our phosphor wake reappears quivering across it,--seeming to reach back to the very horizon. It is brighter to-night,--looks like another Via Lactea,--with points breaking through it like stars in a nebula. From our